


Don't say his name

by johnwatsonisagod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:32:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatsonisagod/pseuds/johnwatsonisagod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is not coping well after Sherlock's suicide. Mycroft and Greg try to intervene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't say his name

**Author's Note:**

> The usual: character not mine, no money made.

Faint voices woke him up. John had given up on sleeping at night after Sherlock's death, and had embraced the catnaps that he had survived on all through medical school and most of his tour in Afghanistan. At least he had less chances of having nightmares this way. The dark circles under his eyes could just as well be attributed to his unrelenting sadness for the loss of his friend.

He straightened out his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair. John didn't want to scare Mrs. Hudson, and she was the only one that would come unannounced these days. Everybody else knew better. He didn't return calls, didn't show up for meetings, lunches or dinners, until finally the calls just stopped. Harry checked in once a month, a voicemail with a little update, letting him know that she was doing fine, and if he wanted to talk they could get some coffee. Mrs. Hudson would pop up sometimes, with tea and biscuits, and sit with him, almost always in silence, just letting him know that she was there. John would stop by her apartment once a week to make sure that everything was in order, help out with small repairs, or check her new prescription. He would later give her a small smile and a nod, and head back upstairs, to 221B, slowly limping up the seventeen steps.

As he made his way back down from his room, he could hear two distinct voices, male, not Mrs. Hudson then. They appeared to be engrossed in their conversation.

"Mycroft. Greg." John acknowledge his visitors curtly on his way to the kitchen.

"John! How are you mate?" Greg gave a sad smile, but it only reached John's turned back.

The doctor continued fixing himself a cuppa without answering the question.

Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a confused look, and the detective made a gesture to Mycroft to take over the conversation.

Taking a big swallow from his steaming mug, John turned around, fixed his eyes on a very interesting spot just in front of his shoe, took a deep breath and in a voice that neither of his guests would have recognized as Captain Dr. Watson's commanding tone simply said: "I still have bad days, I guess..."

Lestrade took a step towards John, but the doctor immediately backed away, his eyes changing from sad to alert in one blink. 

Suddenly, John started to look at his visitors, measuring them up. His posture more straight, ready to defend himself if needed. His brain was trying to connect the dots, why was he feeling threatened? He could feel his nails making small indents in his palms, when had he clenched his fists? He was using all the deductive skills he had learned from his best friend, taking in Mycroft's usual composure, but there was something else... why did he look ready to reach his hand out to him? It was subtle, but John could see the slightly open stance, the arm separating from the body, the intense gaze cast down to chest level, assessing John's aggressiveness.

"Why are you here?" John managed to ask through gritted teeth.

"I won't insult your intelligence making excuses John. We are here to check on you. You have been difficult to reach, and we believed a personal visit was in order." Mycroft sounded smug as always, he even picked some invisible lint from his impecable suit while he answered.

"We just wanted to let you know that you don't have to do this alone," added Lestrade.

"Don't I?" snapped John, "I am alone! He is gone, he is not coming back, and i am still here, and I have nothing left to live for!" The words sounded like a confession and a curse at the same time.

Just as a visibly shaken Lestrade was trying to mumble some consoling words, Mycroft reached out to John and, with what he believed to be his most comforting demeanor, opened his mouth to offer a calming and hopeful statement he felt appropriate for the occasion. "You are a competent doctor, John. And have a surprisingly large number of people in your acquaintance. You can still live a very fulfilling life. Sher--" 

"Don't say his name!" John yelled at Mycroft.

"HE would have wanted that for you," corrected the older Holmes, somewhat shaken by John's outburst, but willing to give the doctor that small comfort.

"You don't know what he wanted. You had no idea what he felt or liked. You are more at a loss now than you were before," John spat the words as he walked towards the window. He needed to get some air, his head was swimming in images of his friend, and he wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing him in tears.

"There's help out there, mate," came Lestrade's unwanted helpful addition.

"I don't care what's out there! He is not!" John was screaming to the open window, as if the world was at fault for his loss.

Mycroft tried one more time, "I can certainly understand how you feel, John. Sherlock was my brother after all."

This time the doctor couldn't restrain himself. He turned and grabbed Mycroft by the lapels of his very expensive jacket, shoving him up as much as his height allowed him. "Do. Not. Say. His. Name."

John continued walking, forcing Mycroft to step bacwards. "Don't think about him. Don't say his name. You can't touch him anymore."

Lestrade followed the two, He knew that John needed to get this off his chest, he would let it go as far as John didn't actually hit the other man. What he didn't expect, was for John to hold on to Mycroft with his left hand, and forcefully bring his right one around to grab the detective's wrist.

"I'm talking to you too, Greg." The look on John's eyes was feral, both men froze, waiting for the onslaught from the doctor.

Shaking Mycroft, "You gave him up," and twisting Lestrade's wrist, "and you gave up on him."

"I am the keeper of his name. I am the one that will honor his memory. I will not be bullied by either of you into accepting your pitiful excuses." They had been making their way, loudly down the stairs, and they were finally at the front door. "Don't come back."

The door closed and a very rumpled doctor collapsed in tears against it. Mrs. Hudson came out of her apartment, and very slowly helped him to his feet, led him to her sofa, and let him cry it out on her lap, while she patted his back sweetly.

"I love him," he sobbed

"I know, my boy, I know."


End file.
